


tether

by thegreatpumpkin



Series: these many years [2]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-09
Updated: 2014-12-09
Packaged: 2018-02-28 17:46:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2741444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegreatpumpkin/pseuds/thegreatpumpkin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"No one came to me after Alqualondë. No one told me it was normal—expected even—to feel like this." Ecthelion helps Glorfindel cope with his first real taste of war.</p>
            </blockquote>





	tether

**Author's Note:**

> While working on [The Right Word](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1024505/chapters/2039226), I realized I needed to flesh out the history between Ecthelion and Glorfindel. Therefore, these vignettes are set in the TRW universe, but can be read as a standalone.

**Lothlann  
FA 60**

The _Dagor Aglareb,_ they called it later—the Glorious Battle.

It was hardly the first time Glorfindel had seen action, and certainly plenty of orcs had met their end upon his blades before then. It was just...the scale of it, perhaps, that made it so different from the fights he had known. Skirmishes and scouting parties he was plenty accustomed to; occasionally someone was wounded, killed even—but it was possible to leave the engagement with everyone intact. They had _won_ here—a resounding victory—with what those who’d fought at Dagor-nuin-Giliath were calling a remarkably low number of losses. Glorfindel found it hard to comprehend when he’d seen more elves die here than in the rest of his years together. Even the Helcaraxë had not taken so many right before his eyes.

He and Ecthelion had fought together for most of it. He had done well—very well—and his former tutor’s approval should have warmed him through. They’d been side-by-side for much of this campaign, and Ecthelion had treated him as a peer, even when they were not in Turgon’s company. Perhaps he had simply grown up and moved on? Perhaps that explained the strange disconnected indifference he felt, when in the past he might have thrilled to have finally proved his value.

After the fighting was over, Glorfindel found himself at a fire, though whose fire he couldn’t have said. Everything seemed a little grey at the edges. He stood staring off at some point in the distance, still in his armor. People and horses moved around him and throughout the camp, but it all seemed very far away. Or perhaps it was Glorfindel who was far away—he felt detached, hovering in some misty place where the shouts of the dying and the sounds of the enemy marching echoed through the fog.

Again and again, he saw soldiers falling in his mind’s eye—men and women more skilled, more experienced than he was. Why had they perished, when he remained? Not to mention those few lost under his own command, small though it was—hadn’t he owed them protection? His thoughts ran in circles like the pacing of a caged animal, and the longer he stood, the more he sank into despair.

It was Ecthelion who found him and put a stop to it. He took one look at Glorfindel’s expression and sheathed the blade he’d been sharpening, steering Glorfindel bodily back to the tent bearing the rayed sun. “Find someplace else to sleep,” he barked at the squire waiting there. “I’ll see to him.”

The youth looked to his master for confirmation, but Glorfindel barely noticed he was there, and the fountain-lord’s expression discouraged him from hesitating too long.

Ecthelion said little as he helped Glorfindel out of the armor, beyond the occasional “raise your arm” or “turn around.” His hands were gentle and impersonal; Glorfindel was grateful for the steadying touch, and for the silence. Ecthelion wiped and oiled each piece properly before laying it into the armor chest, as if he was a squire in truth. Glorfindel merely stood still and let himself be guided.

After the armor went his gambeson, tucked into the top of the chest before it was closed. Last, Ecthelion peeled off his shirt, stiff with half-dried sweat and gore from the day’s exertion. At some point Ecthelion must have put water on the fire to heat, though Glorfindel did not recall it—now he took the pot off again, soaking a cloth until it steamed. “Sit,” he commanded, pushing Glorfindel down onto the bedroll, then began the long process of wiping away the dirt and sweat and blood.

The hot water brought Glorfindel back to himself, a little. It occurred to him to wonder _why_ Ecthelion was here, what gain he saw in it. Even on their new footing, Ecthelion was not one for kindnesses. He was known to be committed to justice, but never altruism—why now was he caring for Glorfindel as if something was owed?

The elder elf met his gaze steadily when Glorfindel looked at him, and if he couldn't exactly read minds, he guessed the question easily enough. "No one came to me after Alqualondë. No one told me it was normal—expected even—to feel like this, when the dead are all around you. To feel as if it were unfair that I lived when others died. None of us understood that, then."

Glorfindel felt a sudden rush of gratitude, though it came hard on the heels of grief, as if allowing himself to feel one emotion meant he had to feel all of them. He did not remember Alqualondë, not really, but Ecthelion had been old enough then to understand what was happening—if not, thank the Valar, in a position to participate. Old enough to feel what Glorfindel was feeling now: this disconnected, horrified sense of loss.

When most of the grime was washed away, Ecthelion set aside the cloth and took out a comb, settling himself behind Glorfindel on the bedroll. With the same quiet patience, he loosed the golden braids, combing them out and working through the tangles. Glorfindel relaxed under his touch and thought of nothing for a time, which was a blessed relief. It was not late—the sounds of the camp still buzzed around them—but everything beyond the tent walls fell away for a bit as Ecthelion took his time combing and rebraiding.

At last he finished, turning Glorfindel around so they sat facing one another. He leaned in until the younger elf met his gaze; then again until Glorfindel could not look away from him, seizing his chin gently. “Our duty today—yours and mine—was to live. Maybe another day we will be the ones on a pyre, but until then, we must focus on the duty we are tasked with. It isn’t random, and it isn’t a mistake. No one can see the entire picture save Vairë, and we cannot unpick her weaving just to salve our own sadness.”

The words did not lift Glorfindel’s misery, but something about them gave him strength against it. “I understand,” he managed, after a long silence.

“Good,” said Ecthelion, and kissed him. At this distance it took only a slight shift, the barest tilt of his head, to bring their lips together—Glorfindel hardly realized what was happening until Ecthelion released his chin and slid fingers in among the newly-tied braids. In another time and place, he might have been ecstatic—or perhaps morose, knowing that it was offered in comfort and nothing more—but here and now it was what he needed, and he simply accepted what was given.

“Trust me?” Ecthelion murmured, and Glorfindel gave a terse nod— _I do,_ rather than _I will_. Ecthelion pressed him slowly back into the bedroll, moving over him to reinstate the kiss, more heatedly now. Still, it spoke not of passion or need, but instead of reassurance, strength, security. Glorfindel met the kiss warmly but did no more, letting Ecthelion lead him as he would. That appeared to be Ecthelion’s plan, anyway—he did not seem to expect anything of the elf beneath him but to lie back and be looked after.

He took his time with the kiss as he had with everything before, even as Glorfindel’s body—and his own, for that matter—began to respond. Glorfindel was nearly breathless by the time he rose to remove his own clean shirt and tunic, setting them primly aside; when he settled back into his former position, the shifting of his hips was more deliberate, though unhurried still. Glorfindel arched against him without quite meaning to, and the friction was delicious, the slow build of desire flooding his senses and overwhelming the grief, however temporarily. They moved like that together for some time, in a rhythm of breaths and kisses, and there was nothing in the world but the two of them, nothing but here and now.

After an exquisite interlude—several moments or an age, who could tell?—Ecthelion shifted back again, this time to strip them both of their leggings. He drew Glorfindel up onto his side, settling a hand in the small of his back as he pressed them together, skin to skin now. Glorfindel made an involuntary sound of want and Ecthelion pressed a thumb to his lips, breathing against his ear— “Sssh. Do not forget how noise carries in a city of tents.”

Glorfindel didn’t respond— _couldn’t_ respond—instead hooking a leg over Ecthelion’s hip, an arm around his neck in either encouragement or entreaty. Ecthelion obliged him, sliding against him in a way that made both of them catch their breath, pressing lips to his earlobe and then kissing down his neck. All at once it was not _enough_. Glorfindel rolled back again, dragging Ecthelion on top of him—that was better, but still not _quite—_ He pressed on Ecthelion’s shoulders, shifting him down a bit, then wrapped legs around his waist in a clear invitation.

Ecthelion exhaled in frustration, though his tone was apologetic when he spoke. “Not tonight, _laurëanya_. I’ve nothing close at hand, and you’ll want to be able to sit a horse in the morning.” He didn’t give Glorfindel much time to regret the refusal, though, sliding down his body to distract him with a talented tongue. It was enough—better than enough. Glorfindel bit the side of his hand to keep quiet just how much better.

Even in this, there was something reassuring about Ecthelion’s motions. While he urged Glorfindel towards his peak with lips and tongue and—to Glorfindel’s slightly scandalized surprise—a complete absence of gag reflex, his palm was flat against Glorfindel’s hip, rubbing soothing circles there. It was as if that point of contact was a tether, somehow, holding him in the current moment. As if Ecthelion’s mouth and hands and all the places their skin touched were anchoring him from drifting off into that grey place.

He could keep ahead of the grief. All he had to do was stay in the present, and Ecthelion was making that very, very easy.

He could feel his release building now, something tightening low in his belly. He touched Ecthelion’s shoulder in warning, his breaths growing erratic; Ecthelion glanced up at him briefly and squeezed his hip in acknowledgement, though he continued his ministrations. Glorfindel arched up off the bedroll when he came, a strangled gasp serving in place of a shout; Ecthelion allowed it, shifting back enough not to be choked, swallowing around him when he could. When Glorfindel was spent, Ecthelion crawled back up to lie against his side, resting his hand on the center of Glorfindel’s chest, maintaining that tethering point of contact.

“I won’t say it gets easier, but you learn ways of working through it.”

Glorfindel gave him half a smile. “Like this one?” He was teasing, a bit, but the question was not sarcastic. His heart ached still, but he felt as if he could hold it together now.

“It does help,” Ecthelion acknowledged, reflecting his expression. “Touch helps.” He shifted in a little, pressing his face against Glorfindel’s hair, the tip of his nose brushing Glorfindel’s ear; it was an affectionate gesture, but not a romantic one. Glorfindel had a brief flash of how it would be if they were truly together, but the thought didn’t hurt him like it might have at another time. This was not that. This was like cool water on a parched throat, rest for a weary body—it was what he needed, perhaps even what Ecthelion needed, and somehow that was good enough.

Ecthelion, still hard against his hip, shifted against him. “Shall I… _help_ you, then?” Glorfindel started to reach for him, but Ecthelion caught his hand and clasped it, laying both back against Glorfindel’s chest.

“Mm, no,” he said warmly against Glorfindel’s ear. “I want you to stay just as you are. Lie there and let me…” He thrust against Glorfindel’s hip to punctuate the statement. Glorfindel realized he was perfectly content to oblige. He put his arm around Ecthelion and slid fingers idly into his hair, shivering slightly as Ecthelion panted against his ear, grinding against his hip. He could have done more, but he thought he understood, in a way. Not the fastest route to the destination, perhaps, but solidly physical—there was something grounding about it. And—in the same way Glorfindel had needed to be guided, to lie back and let things happen—it seemed Ecthelion needed to be the one acting, the one _doing_.

Ecthelion took his time, making soft growled noises against Glorfindel’s ear. Glorfindel enjoyed the sounds if not the friction; listening without doing anything would have been _unbearably_ erotic if he were not in this strange state of comforted lassitude. At length Ecthelion gave a quiet _ah!_ and spilled himself against Glorfindel’s side, pressing his lips to Glorfindel’s earlobe just at the last moment. They sighed together, lying quiet for a bit, the muffled din of the camp around them creeping back in like a gentle tide.

Ecthelion rolled away briefly to get the still-damp cloth and wipe them both clean, then stretched out on his stomach, resting his chin on Glorfindel’s shoulder.

“Will you stay?” Glorfindel asked, some time later. It was not an invitation, only a question.

“For a time,” Ecthelion murmured back, only half-wakeful. “I’ll retire to my own bed before the night is entirely gone.”

“Thank you.” Glorfindel was surprised how easy the words were to say. Not for staying—though that was an unlooked-for blessing—but simply for this, the aid, the entire evening. For dissipating the fog, and drawing Glorfindel back into reality. Ecthelion seemed to understand his meaning, squeezing his shoulder briefly.

Ecthelion was right. It did not get easier, but it did grow bearable.

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. _laurëanya_ \--Quenya, "my golden one."


End file.
